


The World Might Be Over (Okay, It Pretty Much Is)

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [55]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Apocalypse, End of the World, Getting Together, Hiding, Human Experimentation, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Science Experiments, Survival, Through the Fire, Two Years Later, World War III
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ten more minutes, then you can do your little diagnostic tests." Sherlock waved a heedless hand, "And you'll see I'm fine."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Might Be Over (Okay, It Pretty Much Is)

Sherlock sighs wearily, staring into the ashen sky. Days like this were okay. Compared to the "bad" days, this was paradise. 

Still, sitting on a faintly eroded cliffside, over a sooty, dead shoreline was hardly cause for cheer and celebration. The former detective (because what really was he _now_?) shuddered a bit from the cold, pulling his cloak a bit tighter over his body — despite the sun being hardly visible, ultraviolet radiation still came through strong. Tucking his legs close to him, he stared out into the vast landscape of ruin. 

" _Sherl_?" He heard the faint lilt calling for him before he could get any further into his morose thoughts. _Hmm. Must've slipped out for too long…_ Understandably, his sense of time had been warped, light no longer a reliable tell of the daytime, and all clocks now virtually useless. 

"Here." He called back, but made no effort to get up; he knew some slap on the wrist was coming for not being careful enough. He could hear Jim's weighted gait — of course he'd be wearing the full _gear_. Thick, course trousers, long-sleeved shirt, gloves, gas-mask with goggles, pistol strapped to his thigh, knife concealed in his boot, cloak with hood drawn up. 

Sherlock had traded one society's arbitrary rules for another. Except he begrudgingly knew these ones had far more immediate consequences. 

"Come on, Sherl, it's dangerous to stay up here." Jim says, a bit muffled through the mask. He quickly paces up the hill behind him, breathing a bit labored — they didn't do a lot of running these days. 

After Sherlock doesn't move for a moment, Jim sighs, removing a glove and putting a bare, comforting hand on his shoulder. Even if he isn't particularly feeling like being consoled, Sherlock mirrors the gesture, entwining their cold fingers. It's something. 

"The radiation has mostly subsided." Sherlock points out, shocked to see Jim would breach even the smallest part of his precious covering. Not that Sherlock ever wore _his_ mask when going outside.

"Still probably not worth chancing…" Jim shook his head, movements exaggerated to translate through the layers, "You know I don't like you testing your experimental antidotes and vaccines on yourself." 

"It's not like there's anyone else." Sherlock points out, because, oh yes, they were quite alone. They'd been living alone for quite some time now — the ex-consultants could only guess at a couple years or so. Time was irrelevant without anyone else watching. 

The world's population was probably only in the millions, or so they'd estimated. 

It could be better, it could be worse, but without much proper communication, it was hard to tell. 

 

* * *

 

**Roughly Two Years Ago**

 

 

It started with a text from Mycroft:

 

**I need to see you. -MH**

 

Then, as if he realized that fear and concern couldn't be expressed by proper usage of grammar, he rapid-fired a second:

 

**NOW. -MH**

 

That was all the warning Sherlock got. The problem was that the warning came from _Mycroft_ , and just to be insubordinate, the detective didn't respond. 

Huge mistake. Possibly the worst mistake he could've made that day. Then again, it might've been too late already, as not twenty minutes later, the first bomb went off. 

But it wasn't a normal explosive — this was a definitive terrorist action, and thus an incendiary wouldn't have done nearly enough. No, this was an electromagnetic pulse, large enough to fry most of the electronic devices in all of the United Kingdom, as well as some of northern Europe. 

The sight and feel of it was strange; Sherlock had been looking out the window, and saw the electricity fry the air, feeling as if his very core had been charged. His mobile screen went blank, as did every other screen in their section of the world. 

Of course, _now_ Sherlock wanted to see what his brother wanted. But since his phone was dead, probably forever, he decided the only option was to go to his office, _the cabs won't be working, cars these days have too many wires… it's about a two kilometer walk, at best…_ He bit his lip, _obviously he won't come_ here _, lazy bastard…_

However, his thoughts were interrupted by frantic, purposeful screaming, " _Sherlock_!" 

The voice was familiar, but also impossible, "Moriarty?" He calls out tentatively. 

"Oh thank _god._ " The criminal popped through the front door, doubling over, completely out of breath, "You're still here." He looked like he'd seen better days; tired eyes, hair not as perfectly gelled as he remembered it, suit jacket wrinkled. 

"And you're _still alive!_ " Sherlock points out incredulously. 

"Yeah, yeah, we'll get to that later — "

"Um, _no_." Sherlock scoffs, "How? Why? Were you ever planning on _telling me_?"

"Sherlock, I don't expect that you know what just happened, but — "

"EMP. Quite large, if I'm not mistaken. All electronic devices with fragile wiring have been disabled… permanently." 

Jim didn't miss a beat, nodding solemnly, "So you _do_ know."

"Not nearly enough. Just what I observed." He waves that away, "That's not important. _How are you still alive?_ "

"I assure you our imminent destruction is worth putting this conversation off for." Jim pants softly, regaining his composure, infinitely happier with proof that he wasn't too late, "I will tell you everything. _Everything_. But right now, you need to come with me."

Sherlock frowns. Empirically, Jim _must_ know most of the details, if not all. _Since he got here so fast, he must've been expecting this, and thus had been keeping an eye on me. Or knew it was going to happen before Mycroft did, and began heading over… oh, right,_ "Mycroft might be coming for me."

Jim sucked on the inside of his cheek, "I'll text him that I've got you, and that you're safer with me. He'll understand." 

"How exactly do you plan to do either of those things?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow, "All of the phones are fried, and _how_ am I safer with you than with the head of the secret service?" 

"Can I _please_ explain once we're in the car?" Jim fidgets, "We're not safe here."

"How does your car still _work_?" Sherlock asks, hanging a hand in front of him as if to say: _well I'm all yours._

"I made sure to acquire a few manufactured before 1965… no solid electronics. I'm sure your brother's got one too." Jim carefully takes Sherlock's palm in his own — _it's strange, the last time we made contact was that day on the roof…_ he shakes the thought away, hastily pulling Sherlock down the stairs.

Waiting outside the steps was an old Mustang. Jim immediately jumped in the front seat.

"I didn't know you drove." Sherlock comments, getting the passenger's side. 

"Generally I try not to, but this is an emergency." Jim buckles in, refraining from pointing out this wasn't the _best_ time to discuss his transportive prowess, "Take my phone. Give me _every_ update, every text as they come."

"Alright."

"Also, text your brother."

"Right." 

 

**No need to come get me, brother dear. With Jim. He says he can keep me safe. -SH**

 

"You _are_ going to tell me how it still works, right?" Just as he sends it, the phone vibrates, "You just got one, actually."

" _Later_." Jim hisses, starting the car, "What does it say?"

"' _Positive on Russia_.'"

" _Fuck_." Jim nearly punched the window, but didn't want to wreck one of his last working vehicles.

"What?"

"There's been a retaliatory detonation in a large chunk of Asia." He places a hand worryingly over his mouth, "It's going to be the whole world. Very soon." He takes a moment to calm down, then begins driving down the street. 

"What happens when the world is overtaken?"

"Essentially?" Jim grimaces, "The apocalypse." 

"Isn't this what you wanted? _Chaos_?" Sherlock snipes, trying to hide his inner panic — he wasn't quite ready for the world to end. 

Jim casts him a fleeting look of desolate sadness, "Sherlock… I tried to stop this. I really did." 

"Don't tell me you're not _responsible_?" Sherlock gasps in mock surprise, "Armageddon is upon us, and the great Jim Moriarty wasn't the one to pull the trigger?"

"I never wanted _this_." Jim pleads, "I wanted everyone _dead_ , yes. But this… we're still _alive_. We'll _keep_ living, most likely. Humanity might even restore order at some point. But until then, we're going to have a really, _really_ bad time." 

"Thought you wanted to die." Sherlock states coldly. 

Jim's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, "I did. But I'm still alive, which should tell you a lot." His eyes flitted back to the detective for a moment, "And so are you. Because of me. And if we're going to get through the incoming firestorm, we'll have to work together."

Sherlock swallowed, "It seems fine now."

" _For_ now." Jim corrects, "You know people, Sherlock. They aren't rational. What do you think is going to happen over the next couple of hours, maybe even days, when people figure out all of the fine machinery — including all communication and surveillance devices — have been disabled?"

"Total anarchy." Sherlock gives a breathless murmur, eyes widening at the realization, "No laws. No government reinforcing it all… well, at least, if they are going to _try_ , it's going to be much, _much_ more difficult." 

"Without _authority_ , government workers are just as easily a target for a bullet as _anyone_ else."

The way Jim is talking about _them_ , Sherlock feels obliged to ask, "Moriarty… Jim… if it wasn't _you_ … who was it?" 

"Complicated question." Jim grunts, turning sharply as the road veered; they seemed to be heading out of the main part of town, perhaps out of London altogether, "But the short answer is North Korea, under the influence of China and Russia."

"What's complicated about that?"

Jim was silent.

"Jim?"

"I'll let your brother sort that out with you."

"But you _actively_ tried to stop it?"

"Yes."

"Which means that you had a small chance to do so. Meaning you had influence here. Meaning… at least _some_ of this is my brother's fault." 

The criminal nods once, "He's also the one who authorized the counter-bombing."

A silence hangs in the air, as neither has much to say. The phone buzzes:

 

**It's probably for the best. I'm needed here. Inform me when your location is secure. Safe travels. -MH**

 

Sherlock considers responding. But he doesn't; everything he needs to say, to ask, to scream at the top of his lungs, needed to be done in person. 

"Where are we headed?" Sherlock finally asks.

"South Downs."

"Safe house?"

"Something like that." 

There was a beat. Moriarty was _saving_ him. Protecting him. Had _already_ gone to such lengths… and what did Sherlock have to offer? Probably a long stretch of grieving for his friends — whom he was sure had been outside during the explosion, what with their normal lives — coupled with his gnawing dread as he came to terms with the fact it was _all_ _over._ He felt lost. "You really think we can _make_ it?" His voice cracked.

At the thought, Jim just smirked, "I don't know." He answered honestly, a bit of mirth in his voice — oh, the novelty of _not_ knowing one's fate, "But I _do_ know the two greatest minds on Earth are now on the case." 

 

* * *

 

**Present**

 

That was the initial assault. If it were only that, humanity might've survived. Perhaps even thrived, the threat of overpopulation culled somewhat. 

Many had died in the initial explosions. Those on life support followed quickly. And there were complications in and of themselves, with the general population relying on electronics so heavily. However, that could've been fixed, given time and a patient, calm demeanor.

But as Jim portended, people so rarely took the correct mindset. Panic prevailed. And where there was panic, there was no end of stupidity and rash decisions. 

The human race could've lived without electricity for a while. A partially blotted-out sun and irradiated atmosphere was another issue entirely.

Millions died a slow death, and some were still dying, of the radiation still present from the subsequent retaliatory fire. Stronger in some parts, weaker in others. Survivors went crazy, thinking it was going to be something like _The Road_ , but at the time, there were far too many people for it to be a romanticized romp — a solid billion alone must've expired when the labs containing biological warfare tools (illnesses such as smallpox, or stores of anthrax) were raided.

But despite _all_ that, most died from exposure or starvation after there was little to no transportation for food, or organizing parties. Plenty followed in the scavenging wars that still went on. 

Governments had quickly collapsed. Mycroft's last letter to Sherlock arrived via armored car several months ago. Pages of long-winded self-righteousness, and all it really said was: _still trying. No progress to speak of._ And some drivel about missing his brother. Post was rare, gasoline a finite resource, so these updates were his only indications that his brother was even _alive_. For all Sherlock knew, Mycroft died the day after the letter was penned. 

But against all probability, amongst all the torment and chaos, Jim and Sherlock are fine.

Paranoid-yet-vindicated Jim had a bomb shelter constructed some years before, hidden beneath the white cliffs of South Downs. Deeply encased in the rock and soil, walls lined with lead, they were safe from the burn, the sun, raiders, cannibals, or another living soul that might be suspicious. Kitchen was well-stocked, not that the two constantly-forgetting-to-eat men ever worried much about food.

No, where Jim's genius and foresight _really_ shined through was the beautifully, gorgeously stocked lab. Rooms and rooms of chemicals, solutions, antidotes, powders, raw elements. If he weren't forced to wear the clumsy getup whenever he so _rarely_ went outside, Sherlock would've thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

He assured Sherlock there were a few more of these, hidden about the countryside in case they ever needed more supplies. A few useful members of his web were posted there, either to keep guard of the more valuable items, or in case Jim "ever needed them again." But Sherlock suspected that was a pithy excuse at best; somewhere, under all that, Jim had a heart. It wasn't hard to see he really did care for a few lousy humans. 

"Ten more minutes, then you can do your little diagnostic tests." Sherlock waved a heedless hand, "And you'll see I'm fine." 

"Yes, I'm sure this is the time you've _finally_ cracked it." Jim scoffs, taking a few steps to get beside Sherlock, sitting down and leaning against him. Brilliant chemist or not, resistance or full immunity to radiation poisoning was a pipe dream at best.

Really, staying alive was less about _surviving_ , than _living_ whatever remaining days were left with his soulmate. 

"Well, of course, and you must think so too…" Sherlock smirks, jerking up Jim's partially-exposed wrist, revealing a fresh needle mark, "At least confident enough to be a guinea pig as well." 

"Mmm. Well. Maybe." Jim concedes, taking his free hand and wrenching off his mask. He's got a fabulous smirk — one devoid of any hope, face covered in a sheen of condensation that was soon to be chilled away by the frigid air, but still, it was more than Sherlock had seen in months, "Maybe I just wanted to come see the sun not-rise with you." 

Leaning back against Jim, the gray sky slightly tinged with orange, neither could tell if it were _rise_ or _set_ , but it didn't really matter. Sherlock might've been fiddling with the idea of a vaccine, but he wasn't interested in saving the world. Could be an interesting byproduct, of course, but… this. _This_ was about chasing freedom. 

It'd been two years since the pulse. The world might be over, but Sherlock was unencumbered by brothers, laws, society, or demands at all, really. The incredibly annoying badgering of one darling criminal, perhaps, but never _forced_. 

No expectations. He could work on the medicine, or he could sit here with Jim. He could curl up in bed and never leave it again, he could read whatever books he hadn't scoured already, he could go raiding (an extremely stupid option, but one no less), he could compose music with the violin Jim had thought to snag for him, or he could snap and kill both of them on a whim. At any point, no matter the time, day or season, his options were wide open.

He could, he could, he could. 

And Jim wouldn't mind.

It made living in the wasteland surprisingly bearable. 

 


End file.
